This child, she is poetry
       but she is surrounded by fools
who cannot, or will not, see this.
Inundated with vast stupidity
on a daily basis
surely must take its toll,
       but it doesn’t on her.
While others would merely writhe helplessly
in insecurity and in that self-fulfilling prophecy of doom
she prevails, for she is poetry.
       She is who they should aspire to be . . .
       if, that is, they are strong enough to do so.
However, they are content to aspire to nothing.
If they could, they would steel away all she has to offer,
       yet they aren’t even worth that.
       Can’t seem to make the effort.
Even if it were possible that the vapid lot
could break her, it won’t happen. Ever.
She will always evoke spring.
Her words will always be worth more than truth, or reality,
       but she can’t help that, for she is poetry.

                                                                ~ 23 April 2002